My Way
by Suz2
Summary: A little angsty exchange between the boys set the night before the tag scene of New Stuff. Darien expresses his feelings, and Bobby has his doubts. Darien is forced to decide just how grown up he really is.


Title: My Way

Author/pseudonym: Suz

Fandom: Invisible Man

Pairing: Bobby/Darien

Rating: PG-13

Status: Complete

Archive: WWOMB, QSArchive, any others jut ask.

Feedback: Of course!

E-mail address for feedback: suzinsf@earthlink.net

Series/Sequel: Yes, sequel to missing scene (New Stuff) story, 'Count On It'

Other websites: fanfiction.net

Disclaimers: Don't own 'em, just like to psycho-analyze them! And inflict a little angst

Notes: Okay, this one did NOT turn out the way I expected, so for those who were anticipating schmoopiness, sadly, the boys had other ideas. I will try again, however. Many, many thanks to the fab Beta team who nursemaided me through a difficult birth.

Pip, Doug, Devyn, Dawn, I couldn't have done it without you! And thanks Doug, for sharing the original bunny.

Summary: A little angsty exchange between the boys set the night before the tag scene of New Stuff. Darien expresses his feelings, and Bobby has his doubts. Darien is forced to decide just how grown up he really is.

Warnings: Spoiler for 'New Stuff', unexpected angst.

__

The

Invisible Man

"My Way"

(Rest of New Stuff missing scenes)

I know the grin that's splitting my face is goofy, at the very least, but I can't help it. God, I've wanted to do that for so fucking long, and I just didn't have the guts. Hobbes. Bobby Hobbes. My partner. And if I have my way, maybe more. I kissed him, not five minutes ago, and he didn't freak.

He didn't freak. 

He didn't _freak_!

I'd be doing some kind of victory dance if there was one for bi guys who are about to try to seduce their straight best friends. Or at least I always figured he was straight, what with the ex-wife and all... . My grin ratchets up a notch as I remember the cocky, half-embarrassed little sideways tilt of his head when he pulled that macho I been around, pal' line on me. Maybe I'm being overly optimistic, but that sounded an awful lot like a go-ahead to me. Or maybe a Hobbes-style come-on.

I don't really know when I figured out I was in love with the guy. 

I mean, it doesn't exactly fit with my usual picture of a relationship. And he sure as hell doesn't match my typical objects of affection. For one thing, usually they're women. When I met him, I'd never have figured him as the perfect guy for me, what with the meds and the gung-ho attitude. But there's something about Bobby Hobbes that gets under your skin if you let it. Hell, even if you don't. Or at least he did mine. I never even saw it coming until recently.

I don't even really know why I kissed him. 

But I did. I'm _glad_ I did. Even if it never happens again, the taste of him, the feeling of him kissing me back, god, just thinking about it is getting me hard. 

Which isn't exactly why I hugged him in the first place, it just happened. He was just so torn up inside. I know he thinks I can't tell when he's hurting, but he's kidding himself. We've worked together too long for him to pull that kinda crap and expect to get away with it. He _needed_ a hug. Seeing him hurt hurt me, and I hugged him. 

We're pretty physical with each other, anyway. He lets me in. Into his space. I can't remember when I first started noticing it. And noticing that he keeps almost everyone else out. I'm a tactile kinda guy, anyway, so I tend to assume everyone is. But Hobbes isn't. Not with most people. But he is with me. Maybe that's what started me thinking along those lines. I couldn't get that close and not go the rest of the way. Not after everything else we've been through the last two weeks. I wanted him to know how much he means to me. So I kissed him.

Even if it means I spend the rest of my life jacking off to the memory of the way he tasted, the feeling of his hard-on when I kissed it through his pants. 

God, I'm an idiot. I was so caught up in freak-out mode when I found out just how far the Fat Man was willing to go, I blew outta there so fast all I left was a little quicksilver dust. And Hobbes.

I can't believe he's willing to forgive me, not after everything that's happened between us since then. 

Okay, so it's not like I _knew_, or anything. But, shit. I ought to have. Somehow. Jones. The smarmy bastard. He turned on his partner. How could anyone turn on Hobbes? He's the best of the best. He's everything I was taught was good, and honorable, and loyal, and it sounds like I'm talking about Lassie or Rin Tin Tin or something. But it's the truth. Look under 'loyal' in the dictionary and you'll find the name 'Bobby Hobbes'. 

Alright, I'm babbling. My thoughts are scattering off in all directions, tangled up, disjointed, and I know I'm doing the whole 'romantic' thing, painting Hobbes as my perfect mate, my one and only. I know he's not perfect. But then, neither am I. Not by a long shot. What's weird is, it's the way those imperfections mesh that makes him so right for me. Yin and Yang. Cocky and insecure. We're so much alike in some ways it's a little scary. And in others, we're so different, we might as well come from different species.

Anyway, I don't know why I didn't pick up on just how nasty Bobby's stint in the FBI was, and why I never clued in that Jones might have been the biggest reason for Hobbes getting canned until I'd already gone too far to back out. The only reason Hobbes would ever hold a grudge like the one he has with Jones is because he would _never_ have done something like that. Ever. Bobby Hobbes does NOT bail on a partner. Even one he doesn't like.

I just don't get it. How could Jones do something like that to Hobbes? His partner? I guess Hobbes can kinda get on your nerves, if you don't pay attention. Hell, even if you do. But he's no idiot, despite the way the Agency treats him. I watched the Discovery Channel' s special on what it takes to get into the FBI, much less excel at it. I asked Brooks about it; about why they made a deal with me when I didn't know the first thing about bein' an FBI agent. His answer was the first warning I got that I was there on sufferance, a one-trick pony. A long way from the golden boy I boasted about being to Hobbes.

The rest of Brooks' fair-haired team went to great lengths to make sure I knew just how superior they were. Just how rough the training was. That was when I decided to check on Hobbes' record while he was at the Bureau. Hobbes made it through the whole sixteen weeks and graduated near the top of his class_._ And I saw his arrest record while he was with the Bureau. He made some major busts. I never knew you had to have a college degree to even get a spot in the FBI Academy. I wonder what his is in? I didn't get that far in my snooping while I was poking through the Bureau's computer file. All I can say is, thank god Eberts showed me a couple of tricks. How often do I really get the chance to sit in front of a computer and screw around?

So I know Bobby isn't the dim bulb he pretends to be.

I don't really care, actually. What he wants to show the rest of the world doesn't matter to me in the slightest. It's what he wants to show _me_ I care about.

Hobbes never went out of his way to rub my nose in the fact that all my law enforcement experience was from the perspective of jail cells around the state of California the way Brooks' boys did. There was no doubt in any of their minds that the invisibility thing was the ONLY reason I was there. With Hobbes, I was more of a partner, even at the beginning, when we didn't much like each other. He still looked out for me. I really had to think about that, about the differences between Hobbes' way of treating me and the way Brooks' team did. To them, I was a potentially useful tool. To Hobbes, I was a partner.

Partner. A word with so many definitions. And the one I favor? Well, that one's a whole lot more than what it's been so far. God, I'm in love. 

I'm not sure I've ever _been_ this in love before. 

Sure, I've been serious about a couple of women, but it was more a process of getting comfortable with them. Like breaking in a new pair of jeans. And I guess I didn't do such a great job, cuz all of them ended up leaving me. Usually after they found out what I really did. With Hobbesy, he knew all the crap in my life right up front. I know he thought I was a whiney, self-absorbed punk who didn't give a shit about the big picture, about God and country and the stuff he's lived his life by. Hell, he _still_ thinks of me that way. But he likes me anyway. No, he loves me. He's said it more than once.

That's pretty much a first for me. Someone _choosing_ to love me in spite of everything, not someone who had to, just because I was related to them. A friend. A real one. To be loved in spite of everything I've done wrong, everything I haven't done, everything that's been done to me _I_ wouldn't have loved me, if I'd been Hobbes. 

But Bobby's different. He sees things in ways most other people don't. He doesn't judge people and pigeonhole them for his own convenience, most of the time. He'll sometimes mouth off, seem to have made some snap judgment that surprises me, and then he'll surprise me even more by saying something that tells me he was paying a whole lot more attention than I gave him credit for. He sees things I don't. Understands things about human behavior that have nothing to do with books and classes and everything to do with instinct. 

How do I get him to trust his instincts, where _we're_ concerned? His body wasn't lying. He wanted me. But I don't have the first clue how to convince him I want _him_. He can be prickly as hell, if he starts feeling threatened, and that's the last thing I want to do. He's put everything he has into the job, into his work, because there's never been anyone out there who could handle the kind of intensity he brings to things. _Every_thing. I wonder what it'd be like to have the full force of that Hobbesy tendency for obsession aimed at me. It's a little scary, I guess, but it's also exhilarating. The idea that I'd have him to myself. All of him. That hard, sturdy little body of his .

I stumble on the steps in front of his condo and make a grab for the handrail, laughing at myself for being so distracted by the idea of Hobbes naked in my bed that I can't even keep my balance. I stare up at the sky overhead, dark blue, the first stars just starting to come out, and take a deep breath. I can taste the salt and the faint fumes of marine diesel from the marina less than a block away. It's not until I reach for my car keys that I remember that Hobbesy was the one driving. I laugh at myself again for making a grand exit and then getting myself stranded in front of Prince Charming's castle. Well, that's why there are cabs, I guess, and I fish around in my pants pockets, finally digging up a quarter. I walk back up the stairs to the lobby of Bobby's building, knowing there's a payphone there.

I find it near the elevators and scan the yellow pages for the number of a cab company, dropping my quarter into the phone's slot and starting to dial.

"Need a ride, there, partner?" Bobby's voice behind me is pitched low, a little... sultry? And it catches me totally off guard, making me fumble both the phone book and the receiver, dropping everything to dangle awkwardly from their tethers and cables.

"Shit, Hobbes," I yelp, whirling to face him. "Don't sneak up on me like that!"

His smile is mostly in his eyes, irony quirking his mouth. "Just giving you a taste of what it's like hanging around with the inviso-boy," he comments dryly. "So, you really planning on cutting outta here after - _that_?"

"_That_?" I echo with the same emphasis, cocking an eyebrow. I can play coy, too.

"You didn't eat anything, and we haven't finished our debriefing," he says, and there's a smirk creeping over his face.

Debriefing? The word brings my core temperature up about two degrees in a fraction of a second, luscious mental images flashing across my mind of Bobby Hobbes sans briefs. Or boxers. Or whatever.

"Fawkes, are you payin' attention?" he asks, annoyed.

I gulp. "Uh, yeah," I manage, getting ahold of myself.

"So?" he asks, practically tapping a toe in impatient frustration, crossing his arms across his chest and leaning back a little in his best macho pose. I don't know how he does it - swaggering without moving a step. It's kinda cool. It's even cooler to know he's doing it for me. Showing off for me. _Geeze, Fawkes, get a grip_. I mentally shake my head.

I'm having a hard time keeping track of the conversation with most of my attention on my partner's body language rather than his spoken words. "So?" I parrot back.

"So are you gonna come back upstairs and eat something or do you want me to drive you home?" Hobbes asks, enunciating clearly, as if he thinks I might be going deaf.

__

Eat something. Another tempting mental image flashes across my mind's eye and I try to smother the grin. "I dunno I mean you're gonna have to take me home anyway, since we came in your car," I hesitate, not sure enough about what's happening to want to risk screwing things up yet again by pushing my luck.

"I am, huh? We've only been workin' together again for one day and already you're tired of my company?" he hurumps, only from the glitter of amusement in his eyes, I can tell he's teasing me.

"Bobby," I start, taking a step towards him without having a clear plan of action.

Whoops! 

I forget how fast he can move when he wants to. Lightening. So fast I don't even see it coming as he grabs me by one elbow, swinging me into his arms and reaching up to grab my hair in both hands to pull me into range. He kisses me breathless. Oh, man. I have _never_ been kissed like this in my life.

Oh.

My.

God.

Sweet, beer-flavored Bobby Hobbes tongue sliding along mine, lips and teeth and a hint of beard stubble and holy mother of god, I've never tasted anything this good, ever. I can't breathe. And I don't care, kissing him back frantically, fighting to get him to let me swallow him alive, moaning my frustration into that dark wet warmth as he sucks my tongue into his mouth. 

Okay.

So he wants to do the swallowing.

I can live with that. 

I let him rampage through my mouth, diverting myself by trying to get his shirt un-tucked so I can get my hands on him.

At last. Skin. Warm, smooth, the muscles of his back taut underneath my hands. This time he's the one who moans, and dammit, pulls away, leaving me panting as I stare down into his face. I lick my lips uncertainly, missing the feeling of his high-energy body against me.

I feel better when I realize he's panting too, staring up at me, his eyes practically black in the atmospheric lobby lighting.

"Oh, man, Fawkes," he says quietly, blinking, looking as dazed as I feel.

I just stand there like a dolt, speechless, focused on the slightly swollen look of his lips as they move. I don't really hear what he says, too caught up in memory of the way they moved against my own. They tempt me closer and I lean forward to taste them again, mesmerized, unconsciously reaching for him.

"Fawkes!" he snaps, and it finally gets through. It's my turn to blink.

"What?" I ask, confused.

"Fuck. Fawkes. Do you still want me to take you home?" he demands.

Home? I liked the sound of 'fuck', better. "Uh," I answer stupidly.

He shakes his head, grabs me by one arm and hustles me towards the nearest elevator, slamming a hand against the call button before muscling me against the cold steel of the closed door. He runs his hands under my shirt and up my belly across my chest to brush against my nipples.

"Oh, god, Hobbesy," I gasp as pure sensation goes racing along every nerve ending. 

"I always wondered," he says as he rucks up my t-shirt and goes after them with his mouth.

The feeling goes straight to my cock, and I throw my head back against the door of the elevator hard enough to make my vision darken and stars explode behind my eyes. It's a good thing no one's in the lobby, because my moan would have had someone calling the cops.

The bell chimes, announcing that the car has arrived, and the elevator doors open as he's still tugging my t-shirt into place. Both of us ignore the startled expression of one of his neighbors who's standing inside. We let them out then step into the elevator nonchalantly as if we made out while waiting in the lobby every day. Hobbes is flustered. I can see it in the tension in his back as he stands facing the elevator doors, and I try to get my own breathing under control. It's gotta be a little weird for him, being caught red-handed necking with another guy in the lobby of his building. Heck, it's weird for me, too. He's quiet the whole way up to his floor and I try not to let it worry me.

I follow Hobbes down the hall back to his front door and he shoves me through, stepping in after me and slamming and locking it hurriedly. I stand there watching him, all of a sudden my mouth going dry as he turns around to look at me.

"Wondered what?" I ask, just to try to distract myself from the weird feeling in the pit of my stomach.

"What 'wondered what'?" he says, irritably, heading across the entry way towards me.

I laugh. I can't help it. It's such a Hobbesy way of answering. "Downstairs," I remind him. "You said you'd always wondered," I prompt. 

He ducks his head and grins a private little grin as he brushes past me, one hand starting to reach up, then he pauses for a split second, thinking better of whatever it was he was about to do. " Nothing," he says casually as he heads into the kitchen. "Forget about it."

My breathing goes all irregular again, my inhalation shaky as lust zings through me. Crap, he's a tease!

"Hobbes," I whine as I follow him into the kitchen, leaning against the front of his refrigerator to watch as he turns off the heat under his pots and then gets out a couple of plates.

"Yeah?" he asks without looking at me, fishing forks and knives out of a drawer and handing them to me as he walks past with the plates. 

I follow him out of the kitchen. He puts the plates on his table and I drop the forks and knives with a clatter, reaching out to catch him by an arm so I can pull him closer.

Only he does some weird martial arts move and frees himself without batting an eye. "Food's gonna get cold, partner," he insists, disappearing back into the kitchen while I sulkily arrange the utensils next to the plates. That's not the only thing getting cold, I think, ignoring the anxiety that starts replacing the lust of five minutes ago.

He comes out carrying his pots and puts them on the table, settling into his usual chair. I take the one across from him, silently taking a helping of the rice and then the shrimp stuff he hands me. "Hobbesy," I start, and get his raised eyebrow quirked at me. I ignore the warning. "What happened in the lobby - " I go on, hesitantly. "I mean, what _happened_?" I turn it into a question.

"You gotta ask, then it really _has_ been too long since the last time you got any," he comments, then lifts a forkful into his mouth.

I just glare at him, trying not to let that little dig sting. I take my own mouthful of food and chewing it hard. "Thanks for rubbing that in, partner. Like I wasn't already aware of that little fact," I snap with my mouth still full.

He grins, that cocky machismo radiating off him. It's pissing me off.. "Just thought I'd mention it," he says smugly.

"Hobbes," I complain, knowing it'll drive him nuts. "Can't you just give me a straight answer, here? In the lobby. What happened?"

He swallows another bite. "It's called a kiss, Fawkes," he remarks tonelessly, without looking at me. 

"Yeah, and I'm the dalai lama," I snap back at him.

"Eat your dinner, Fawkes," he suggests sharply, his tone warning me to drop it.

I glower at him and wolf down the food on my plate, barely tasting it. It's good, though, and I wonder if he made it himself. He's cooked for me before, but I'm not gonna give him the satisfaction of asking. He's just a little too full of himself for my tastes at the moment. Especially since _I'm_ the one who wants to be full of him. Crap. That little thought has my cock all atwitch, and I shift uncomfortably in my chair. "Hobbes, anyone ever tell you you're a prick tease?" I ask sarcastically.

He gives me the 'who, me?' innocent act, and it's all I can do to not kiss that smirk off his face. Or slug him. "Hobbes," I say warningly. 

"Yeah?" he responds with forced casualness..

"In the lobby. What the hell happened?" I insist.

This time he sets down his fork and eyes me, leaning back in his chair. "I kissed you, Fawkes," he states carefully. I'm pushing him, and he's getting edgy. But I want him to think about it. Really think about it. Because I don't want this to slip away. Or be a one time thing, or something he's gonna regret in the morning. I can see his body tensing up, and I swallow nervously.

"You expect me to sit here and believe that was _just_ a kiss?" I demand. "You're telling me you didn't feel that?"

"Feel _what _Fawkes?" he asks, going rigid, serious, now. Hell, maybe even grim. No, maybe terrified is a better way of putting it. _Now_ he's starting to freak on me. Shit-shit-shit.

"What I felt," I answer, knowing that I can blow it for good, right here, right now, if I don't handle this right. I don't like the look in his eyes, a little sad, a lot scared, mostly resigned.

"And that would be?" he asks, sarcasm creeping back into his voice. I don't like that, either. It makes my belly ache.

I straighten up and stare into those beautiful, expressive eyes of his for a long time. "The earth _moved_, Bobby," I say at last, softly. Hell, it spun totally out of orbit.

"I know," he answers flatly, and I don't know how to take that. I want to think the pain in his eyes tells me he doesn't, either. What the hell is he telling me here? That he knows I love him? That he loves me? That he doesn't? What? Fuck. Fucking _hell_.

I stare back at him as my pulse starts to thud in my ears. "If you tell me you didn't feel that, didn't feel like you just won the lottery, feel like you were finally holding the right person, I won't believe you. _Tell me_ you didn't feel any of those things." _Please, god, Bobby, don't deny it_, I plead silently with him.

I don't know what he sees in my face, but whatever it is, it makes him sigh and look down at his plate. "Fawkes, I know what you think you felt," he begins, "But you're wrong."

"No, I'm not," I insist stubbornly, starting to panic. "Don't tell me how I felt, Hobbes. I felt like I felt like the world finally gave me the one thing I've always needed. I love you and I want you to make love to me." _Okay, take that, partner_, I think to myself.

His bark of sharp laughter is bitter and almost inaudible. "Now, see, _that_ I can believe," he says. The pain that was in his voice earlier tonight is back and I grit my teeth.

__

Careful, Fawkes. Don't blow this. "Believe what? That I want you to fuck me? Or that I love you?"

"I can believe you're a good-looking young kid who needs a lot more action than he's getting. I'm safe, an easy target, and there's no security risk." He shrugs, self-deprecatingly. "It's an obvious solution. Just don't confuse the physical thing with anything else," he tells me dismissively, not meeting my eyes. He's going all squirrelly on me, I just know it.

Oh, hell. This is gonna be harder than I figured. I lean back in my chair again and look at my plate while I think about how to make my point. I look up at last to find him watching me, stonily, his 'agent' mask in place. I hate it when he does that, shielding himself from me. "So it's okay if I want you to fuck me, but not okay if I want you to love me?" I ask quietly.

"Fawkes," he starts, and I see the flash of pain so intense it makes my breath seize up in my lungs. "You know I love you, kid."

"Just not like _that_?" I ask, still quiet, terror seeping through my bloodstream. 

He stares back at me wordlessly for a long second. "That's not the problem, Fawkes," he manages at last. 

"So what exactly _is_ the problem, Hobbes?" I ask, trying not to let the words mean too much. I know some of the desperation is starting to show in my voice. I clamp down on it. I refuse to force him into something he doesn't want. I don't want a mercy fuck. I want a lover. I want _him_. Willingly. Body, heart, mind, soul. All the craziness, the goofiness, the things that drive me nuts, and the just plain wonderfulness of Bobby Hobbes. All of it. The whole package.

"I don't want to be your price, Fawkes," he says quietly, taking another bite and chewing without looking up from his plate. 'I _can't_ be."

My price? "What the hell are you talking about, Hobbes?"

"Fawkes." He glances up, meeting my eyes finally, and he's gone totally, awfully, terrifyingly serious on me. "You come back to the Agency, you gotta do it on your own terms. For your own reasons. It's gotta be your choice. Not mine. Not the Fat Man's. Yours. You gotta think about why you'd bother. What's in it for you. And if that's the only thing bringing you back, it won't be enough. I'm not a good enough reason." He puts down his fork and rubs the back of his neck wearily. "If you can't add anything else to the list, all you'll end up doing is spending your time being pissed off - at the Fat Man, at the Agency, at me. I can live without the stress, buddy."

Stress? All I am is another thing for him to stress about? I'm not buyin' it, and I glare at him. The Agency is where Hobbes is. Where my heart is. Whatever he thinks, that's more than enough reason to go back. "Bobby, I-"

"Don't say it. Whatever it is, just don't say it. What happened _happened_. I'm not makin' excuses, I'm not gonna apologize for it. But Fawkesy, we're friends. Leave it at that, okay? What you want I don't think I can give, and what I need, no one can give. Not without making both of us nuts. You met Viv. You know how I get when I get serious. It'll screw up a really good thing, we go that route. Trust me. I should know. And I don't want to lose you because of something that stupid, if you decide to come back to the Agency. You're my partner. That has to come first. Or one of us could end up dead." He's quiet, dead serious, and he's breaking my heart.

Stupid. He thinks falling in love is _stupid_. And I'm sitting here thinking it's about the most incredible, wonderful, fantastic thing that's ever happened to me. How did we go from practically fucking in the front lobby of his building to standing on opposite sides of the Grand Canyon all of a sudden? How did I miss the place we lost each other? 

I hurt, my throat tight enough to choke off my breathing, and I swallow. That hurts, too. I want to cry, but I do that, and the oh-so-cool Darien Fawkes blows his cover as all around macho guy. I stare down at my plate and scrape together the last of my dinner, then get up, walking the plate into the kitchen. I stand there, staring at the wall behind the sink for a long second, the plate in my hand, blood roaring in my ears, my vision darkening. 

And I take out my hurt on the inanimate dinnerware, hurling it against the wall, watching as the shattered porcelain flies in all directions, the last of the rice sticking satisfyingly to the walls and cabinets.

"Fawkes!" Bobby's voice is sharp with worry, or maybe it's anger of his own, and I hear him push himself away from the table and get to his feet.

I try to ignore the clenching ache in my chest, pretending not to feel anything, desperate to get the hell out of here, away from yet another person who's just told me, one more time, that I'm not fit for romantic relationships.

I'm so numb I don't even sense the moment when Hobbes arrives in the kitchen to stand next to me, and the warmth of his hand on my arm startles me out of the first flickerings of self-righteous rage. I let it go, as much as I can, trying to ignore the black hole that inhabits my chest, and the fire in my belly. "You okay, Fawkes?" he asks worriedly, like he really wants to know.

"Fine," I say. It's more a croak than anything, but I say something, at least. I step past him and his hand falls away as I shove mine into my pockets. "Bobby?" I ask without looking at him. 

"Yeah?" his voice is wary, tentative, almost. I can hear the regret in it.

"In the lobby." I turn to face him. "What the hell did you think you were doing? What the hell _was_ that?" I know what it felt like, I know what I wanted it to be. But I don't know what it was. And I _need_ to know.

He just stares back at me, and I can see the desperation and something that looks like despair. "It was me, losin' it. Because it was you.... Call it temporary insanity. Call it anything you want. I'm sorry, Fawkes."

Sorry. _He's_ sorry. "You're sorry," I repeat flatly, not knowing how to handle that. Part of me, the part that's hurting, the part that's so angry it's all I can do to stand here, wants to tell him he's right. He IS sorry. As sorry an excuse for a friend as I've ever had. Only that's not true. And all the rage snarling and howling in the back of my head won't change the fact that Hobbes is the best friend I've ever had. And I don't want to lose that. "I guess that makes both of us," I add. "Thanks for dinner," I continue, my voice dull. "You mind calling me a cab?"

"Fawkes, dammit, I can drive you home," he answers.

I shrug, looking away again. "I just kinda need to think, buddy. 'Bout what you said. 'Bout whether I have any sorta future at the Agency, or if I should track down Luke Lawson and let him turn me into the killer he always wanted me to be." Or if I should just find a gun and put myself out of my own and everyone else's misery.

"Don't you go near that bastard, Fawkes," Hobbes says fiercely, coming around to stand in front of me. "You hear me?" he grabs me by the biceps and shakes me slightly. "Fawkes. You don't come back to the Agency, call me. Believe it or not, there are people out there who owe Bobby Hobbes a few favors. I'll find you somewhere that'll take care of you. Believe me."

"Hobbes? You know what, buddy? I can't really think about that right now, okay? I think I just need some time to get a handle on my life," I explain, proud of myself that I can keep my voice from breaking. "I'll talk to you later, okay?" I tell him as I step around him and head for his front door, letting myself out without a backward glance, feeling his dark eyes sharp between my shoulder blades as a knife.

There was a cab waiting in front of the complex when I stepped outside into the slowly cooling night. I don't know if it was the one I told Hobbes to call, or someone else's I was beating them to. It didn't much matter to me at that point. I got home alright and walked up the stairs to my apartment, let myself in and shut the door behind me, closing it on something that I'd wanted more than anything I've ever wanted in my life. Bobby Hobbes. 

That was when I started to cry.

It was also when I started thinking about everything that had happened in the last two weeks since Claire cured the quicksilver madness.

I've been lying here in my clothes on my bed for the last three hours, thinking, ignoring the phone calls and the increasingly short messages from Hobbes, his voice getting more and more worried. He's doing the obsessive thing, even though I told him I needed time to think. I wish he'd back off, but maybe it's his nutso way of letting me know he's having second thoughts. I can dream, anyway.

Finally, at somewhere around midnight, I get up, brush my teeth and get undressed, lying back down on the mattress without getting under the covers. 

It bugs me to have to admit it, but Hobbes was right about one thing, anyway; if I go back to the Agency, unless I change the rules on the Fat Man, I'm no better off than I was before. 

Okay. So what do I want? What's important to me? The paycheck? It's a joke. Always has been. But still, since the counteragent budget is all of a sudden fair game, maybe there'd be a way to con a raise out of the cheapskate who runs that asylum. If I want to bother, that is. 

So what are my choices, realistically? Go back to the FBI, get chewed out by Brooks for disappearing on them so I could help the Agency shut Stark's latest plot down and wind up partnered with that scumbag, Jones? I don't think so. Go to the CIA? I'd wind up following in my father's footsteps for real. Assassination isn't my style. NSA? Same choice. ATF? DEA? Let's face it. None of the other agencies out there are up to speed on Chrysalis.

Chrysalis. 

And Arnaud is still out there somewhere, now back in the land of the visible and probably not wasting much time in dreaming up some other way to make my life miserable. So what are my choices?

I lie there, cursing my brother and his wannabe omnipotence. Because he's right. I've seen things. Things I can't pretend not to have seen. And like it or not, my world isn't the same as it was the day Kev came to my jail cell and offered me the cockamamie deal that I've spent just about every minute of my life since regretting. Which leaves me in the really uncomfortable position of having to admit my brother was right. At least by the standards the rest of society holds to. I _am_ a better person because of his damned gland. I've actually made a difference. Counted for something.

Which goes against my no-account tendencies, let me tell you. 

But the memory of the look in Hobbesy's eyes when we make a really _good_ collar, jeez. It makes it worth it. I guess what I have to decide is, is it even possible to go back to working with someone I'm in love with, knowing he doesn't feel the same way about me? Or is afraid of admitting it. Can I live and work that close to someone I might never have?

Am I really that grown up?

How the hell do you decide what's important enough to you to give up on the little things? Like being loved. Having a warm body to cuddle up with. Maybe a couple of kids. How much do I hate Stark and his genetic mutant über-kids? How far am I willing to go to get revenge on Arnaud? Not far enough to kill the bastard. Even QSM, I couldn't do it. Not that I didn't want to, but I _couldn't_. So where does an ex-con thief come off being all holier-than-thou about a little bodily harm to the asshole who murdered his brother?

I really wish I understood myself better, sometimes. I've had Arnaud in my sights, sane and QSM, more than once, and I could never finish the Swiss-miss mother off. Not even when I was Kevin. Why does being a grownup have to be so damned complicated? I mean, my life has always been pretty simple, up to now. I saw something I wanted, I took it. Easy. Simple. Uncomplicated. I _liked_ my life, goddammit! I don't like it much, any more. 

Okay, I admit I've got a big ol' Peter Pan complex, but I don't wanna grow up. Not when it means things just go on getting more and more complicated, more and more dangerous, more and more shitty. Where the hell is the pay off, huh?

Man, I'm feeling good and sorry for myself, lying here in the dark of my apartment and slowly getting chilled. It's October, and even in San Diego, it'll cool off at night. I'm starting to shiver a little as I lie looking up at the shadows on my ceiling. 

Hobbes.

It all keeps coming back to Hobbes.

He's been takin' it in the chops since he was fresh outta high school, or whenever it was he enlisted. To do the job. To make this a safer place for _other_ people's kids. It cost him his marriage. The one person I know for a fact he loved more than it's really safe - or sane - to love anyone. I can't believe I'm lyin' here, completely on fire with jealousy over a woman Hobbes loved. Loves. She couldn't have cared less that someone like him, whatever his problems are, and there are more than I can count, was willing to risk everything to keep her safe.

Which is when it hits me. 

He's done exactly the same thing for me. So he doesn't - can't? won't? - love me the way I want him to. But he's risked his life for me. He's risked his job for me. The one thing that defines him in his own eyes. The Job.

He made _me_ his job.

So how can I seriously think about bailing on him?

Bobby Hobbes taught me everything I know about the spy game, even if I had to be dragged kicking and screaming all the way. And the first thing on the list is that you don't bail on your partner. Ever.

I lie there blinking at the blurriness that fogs my vision, trying to get a handle on a whole new life paradigm. 

So.

If my life is worth shit anyway, what about spending it making sure the world is a little safer for the middleclass schmucks out there who think truth, justice and the American way is some kind of divine right? What if Hobbes has the right idea? They may never be _my_ kids, but somewhere, some punk like I was might some day grow up to be a better person, because people like Hobbes and maybe even me did what we could to make it okay for them.

But that doesn't mean I'm just gonna write off _my_ life, and the things I wanted from it, especially not Hobbes. I told him after the first time I kissed him that we had time. We still do. Maybe that's all we'll ever have. But if it's ever gonna be anything more, I have to be there to see it through.

I reach over to the nightstand and pick up the phone, hitting speed dial for a number I never thought I'd need to call again.

When she picks up on the sixth ring, her voice is groggy with sleep.

"Hey, Claire, sorry I woke you. You got a minute?" I ask her, rolling onto my side and wiping the last of the self pity from my eyes.

It's not quite two in the afternoon when I walk back in through the front doors of the Agency and move along the dingy corridors towards the Official's office. Nothing is ever gonna make me like that guy, but maybe having the ball in my court will make dealing with the fat bastard easier. I keep telling myself that as the butterflies escape into my belly and start churning things up pretty good. I keep right on telling myself that I'm doing the right thing as I turn the corner into the hall right outside the Official's office and I pause, thinking about it, for the last time, flashing on something I once read in an interview with Ray Bradbury. He said; 'I don't try to describe the future, I try to prevent it.'

I figured it was time we took that kind of control.

I open the 'Fish's door and let myself in, knowing I'll find him there, along with Eberts, his trained poodle. 

I hadn't really expected to see Hobbes sitting there.

He turns his head to glance my way as I shut the door behind me, and the little half smile-half ironic curl of the lips tells me he wasn't really expecting me, either. He doesn't let anything slip as I saunter across the floor.

"Well," I start. "I had breakfast with Matt Brooks today over at the FBI. Told him I was transferring back to the Agency." I catch Hobbes' slightly raised eyebrow out of the corner of my eye as I walk towards the chair next to his.

"Ah." The fat man says, pontifically. "Eberts." The tone of command is unmistakable, and Ebes hands the Official what looks like a ream of paper, bound with manila covers and everything. He drops it onto his desk with a thud, dust billowing up from it.

Already I can see where this is heading. "Uh, whaddaya doing?" I ask, having a pretty good idea.

"Your new contract," Eberts says, confirming my guess.

"Let's just say I had a feeling," the Official adds his two cents worth.

I sit and lean back in my chair, not willing to let myself be railroaded this time. "Okay. First of all, not signin' anything. Secondly, I said I that I was comin' back. _But_ I'm coming back my way."

"My way," the 'Fish repeats, the words clipped, a parody of the way I said them.

"His way," Hobbes pipes in, and I turn my head to look at him, smiling.

"Thank you," I say, meaning more than just the confirmation. His expression is unreadable, maybe a little pleased, but he's still guarding his feelings from me. I turn back to the Fat Man and wait.

"Just what exactly does 'my way' entail?" he says, still mocking me.

"Well," I say calmly, cocking my head a little. "Kinda how it sounds. Depends on the day."

"Ah." The response is flat. "Like?" the Fat Man prompts.

"Well, like, I dunno I don't want to come to work till noon, I don't come to work till noon. If I don't wanna do a case cuz it sounds stupid, I don't do the case." I'll just clue him in on the worst case scenario first things first, I figure. It's about time he stopped taking me for granted.

"Your way," Bobby says, and I can't quite tell if he's being sarcastic or not. I ignore him.

"Oh. And also, the Agency will increase the funding to get the gland outta my brain. Which essentially means you hire back Claire." I wait for the Keeper to make her entrance, and it's a couple of seconds before I realize she's missed her cue. I ignore the ironic expression on the Fat Man's face as I repeat myself, loudly this time. "Which essentially means you hire back Claire!" I enunciate clearly at the Official's closed office door.

"Oh! Yes!" is clearly audible through the door and she opens it and hustles in, lab coat billowing after her. "Uhm, with a raise, please," she adds standing between Hobbes' chair and mine.

Hobbes looks away from her, disconcerted, turning toward the Official, going all obsequious. I hate it when he buckles under the Fat Man's games. He's better than that. I guess I shoulda warned him how this was gonna go down, but I haven't finished playing my hand yet, so I let him babble.

"Sir, if I may point out, I was really the only actual field operative on the case actually working for the Agency at the time of our latest victory," he wheedles, "and I feel it's only appropriate that I-"

"That's not entirely true, Robert," the 'Fish interrupts as Hobbes winds down.

"Huh?" Bobby grunts, startled. 

Oh, crap. I'm not liking this.

"Eberts," the 'Fish snaps.

"The Official leaked the tip to the FBI about the ecoterrorist group, which allowed Darien to once again acquire the trail back to Chrysalis," Eberts informs us.

"So you see, Darien, whether you're working for me or not, you're still working for me." The Official's laugh rumbles with sarcasm.

Bobby looks like he's been kicked when he's down, like he's taken it in the teeth again from the fat bastard. And I can't help him, cuz I'm feeling pretty much the same way. "I feel icky," I announce, just plain pissed that once again, I've been out-maneuvered by that fat Machiavelli.

"He has that effect," Claire kicks in, looking like she's just tasted something nasty.

Now Eberts joins in the laughter dutifully, drawing the line in the sand one more time, siding with his porcine boss. _Our_ porcine boss, I guess. I sigh, glancing at Hobbes and Claire. "Ha-ha. Wanna get drunk?" I ask Claire.

"Yes." It's unequivocal. And this from the woman who can't handle more than the occasional glass of wine without getting shit-faced. She looks at Hobbes, including him in the invitation. The flash of jealousy running along my veins like quicksilver surprises me. But I don't know whether I'm jealous of Hobbes - or Claire.

"Definitely," he grimaces, unfolding himself from his chair.

I get up too, catching him telling Claire he knows just the place. "What's Herb's?" I ask.

"Herbs," he answers, like I ought to know.

"They make a good margarita?" Claire asks hopefully.

She and Bobby walk ahead of me towards the door of the office, discussing the merits of Margaritas versus Piña Coladas, me, hands in my pockets, thinking hard, following along behind them, Eberts and the Official still laughing as if they were in Letterman's studio audience.

"Piña Coladas with the pineapple down the side and the little umbrellas" he's telling her as they make it into the hall. I throw one last look at the pair of jackals chortling away, knowing this isn't over, yet, and shut the door behind me as I head after my buddies.

End


End file.
